


Rocket '68

by Omorka



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, flashfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first line prompt "It's my fault this happened!  I have to help!"  Goofy fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rocket '68

"It's my fault this happened! I have to help!" Peter darted towards the sidewalk; Mike caught him by the shoulder.

"First of all, it's not your fault. You made one comment about a rocket sled in a comic book you were reading. You didn't suggest to Micky that he _should_ build one, first of all; and second, you didn't know he _was_ building one in the garage until he rolled it out of there ten minutes ago." Mike squinted up the hill at the contraption at the top. "Did he even put seat belts in that thing?"

"I don't know. I'll go check!" Peter tried to walk away again; once again, Mike calmly pulled him back.

"Seriously, Peter, if that thing blows up when he lights it, Davy's already up there to help him. If it works at all, it'll roll downhill, and we'll need to be down here when it blows up, crashes into a wall, or shoots into the bay, whichever happens first." Mike balled up the hand that wasn't holding on to Peter and perched it on his hip. "You know how Micky gets. I don't think we can talk him out of it, now that he's built it."

"I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt." Peter gnawed on one nail obsessively and stared up the hill.

\---

"Everything's ready!" exulted Micky, strapping his motorcycle helmet on.

"Hey, Mick, you sure this is a good idea?" Davy eyed the back axle, which looked like it had spent a previous life as a curtain rod.

"No problem! It's perfectly safe!" Micky pointed at the used Barcalounger that served as the cockpit. "I built in a seat belt and everything!"

"Well, okay, if you're sure, man." Davy held up both hands and backed off.

"Count me down!" Micky flicked a lighter with a flourish and brandished it like an Olympic torch.

"Ten, nine, eight . . ." Davy watched Micky light the foot-long fuse that poked out of the back of a tangle of wires and tubes. "Seven, six . . . " It seemed to be attached to something that was hooked up to the four big metal funnels sticking out of the back. "Five, four . . . " That must be the rocket part. At least he hadn't just strapped a cartload of fireworks to the back of the chair. "Three, two . . ."

A phoomp and a puff of smoke issued from the back. Davy relaxed. That didn't seem so bad.

"Keep counting!" Micky shouted.

Davy shrugged. "Okay, man. One, ignition!"

A jet of blue flame shot out of one of the funnels. The contraption crept forward - one inch, two. A second flame joined the first, then a third; suddenly a fourth sprang out and the cart was moving at a pretty good clip.

"Left, Micky, left!" Davy shouted as the cart began to wobble towards a pair of trash cans set at the edge of the street.

"I can't!" Micky screamed back, barely audible over the rush of the jets. "The steering stick's stuck!"

Davy winced as the rocket sled crashed into the garbage cans and kept picking up speed. He thought he saw Micky clearing a banana peel from his helmet before the cart veered sharply and disappeared down a side street.

\---

Mike got there first, with Peter hot on his heels. He shook his head as he stood over the twisted pile of metal wreckage. "Micky? You still in there?"

A hand pushed its way out of the wet beach sand next to one of the wheels. "Right here." There was a cough, and the sound of someone spitting. "Seat belt worked."

"Hold still," Mike commanded. "Here, Pete, give me a hand with this thing." Carefully, they pulled what was left of the lounger out of the steaming wreck and flipped it over. Micky still had his helmet on, but it was smeared with what looked like seaweed and coffee grounds.

Davy jogged up behind them. "What happened?"

"What happened is that we're lucky that thing missed the pier completely and took a dive off that dune over there. Otherwise, he'd have ended up in the water."

"Man, what a ride," Micky mumbled. There were bits of sea-grass stuck to his shoes.

Mike sighed as he reached down and unbuckled the seat belt. "Now, Micky, what have you learned from all this?"

Micky looked contrite. "The next time I build a rocket sled, test the steering mechanism before I try out the engines."

"No!" Mike scowled down at him before offering a hand to help him up. "Don't build dangerous equipment in the garage without telling anyone."

"That, too." Micky slid off the helmet. "Let me guess - I have to clean this up myself."

"If you don't want to get arrested for littering," Mike agreed. Then his expression softened. "When you're done, come back up to the house - I'll order some takeout for dinner." He turned and began climbing back up the dune; Davy followed after, looking like he still didn't quite understand what had happened.

"Sure." Micky hunted around for a public trash can, found one, and fished an extra plastic bag from the bottom.

"Hey, I'll help." Peter knelt and began gathering bits of tubing from the sand.

Micky looked at him, eyes unreadable. "You don't have to stay, Peter. This is my mess." He scooped the wheels out of the dirt and dropped them in the bag.

"I know." Peter looked at him sideways, then smiled gently, folding the curtain rod to half its length and sliding it into an extra bag that had appeared out of nowhere. "I want to help."

Micky blinked, then smiled back. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it." In silence, they shouldered what remained of the lounger and set it on top of the trash can.


End file.
